UC-NRLF 


B    3    335    7DM 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  WAS 


THE 
HOUSE  THAT  WAS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

BENJAMIN  R.  C.  LOW 

AUTHOR  OF 

'  THE  SAILOR  WHO  HAS  SAILED  ANT)   OTHER  POEMS  ' 

AND 

"a  WANT)  AST)  SIRIXGS  ANT)   OTHER  POEMS  " 


NEW   YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE, THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXV 


Copyright,  19 15, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Press  of 
J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company- 
New  York,  U.S.  A. 


TO  MY 
SOME-TIME  CRITIC 

AND 

LIFELONG  FRIEND, 

WILLARD    B.    LUTHER 


There  is  a  beauty,  after  all  is  said, 
Unreached  forever.     Not  when  music  dies, 
And  earth  dissolves  in  rapture  of  deep  sighs; 
Not  by  the  dance,  down  glades  of  moonlight  fled ; 
Nor  poetry,  echoing  death-chants  to  the  dead. 
Is  it  unveiled:  and  yet,  so  near,  it  lies. 
The  lonely  wanderer  feels  its  faun-like  eyes. 
And  almost  has  it — by  a  turn  of  head. 

How^  like  a  child  grown  wxary  with  much  play, — 
How  like  the  ripples  on  the  wind-carved  shore, 
He  is,  who  has  his  will  of  life,  who  goes 
Arms  full  of  flowers,  brimming  the  stars  away. 
Beauty,  ah,  beauty,  in  one  wnld  June  rose  .  .  . 
I  put  my  poor  pen  by,  and  write  no  more. 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  House  That  Was 13 

A  Pathway  to  the  Stars     ....  37 

Brick  Walls 40 

Wharves  and  Warehouses  ....  45 

The  Sky  from  a  Dentist's  Chair     .  47 

For  Value  Received 49 

Sanctuary 51 

Scholars  in  Stained  Glass    ....  54 
The  Minster  Statue  on  Christmas 

Eve 57 

The  Flag 60 

Once  Upon  a  Time 64 

Reason   Has   Spoken:   Romance  Re- 
plies       70 

Once  in  a  Life 73 

To-day 75 

Images 77 

Castles   in    Spain 79 

Sailed:    S.    S. 82 

Till  the   Last   Wave   Sings    ...  83 

Landward 86 

9 


Contents 

PAGE 

The    Urban    Shepherd 88 

For     the     Dedication     of     a     Toy 

Theatre 92 

The  Man  of  God 95 

Baal 98 

Sudden    Death 102 

To  A  White-Throated  Sparrow     .     .  107 

A  Hill  Touched  Heaven     ....  109 

The   Passing   of   Sixteen     ....  112 

Apple   Blossoms 114 

Summer    Evening 119 

To  Sibylla,  on  a  Raft 121 

To  Lucia,  in  the  Hospital     ...  124 

The  Little  Boy  to  the  Locomotive  126 

The  Locomotive  to  the  Little  Boy.  127 

Silent     Prayer 128 

Over  A  Bunch  OF  Arbutus    ....  129 

Lincoln:     Fifty  Years 130 

Thomas  Chatterton 131 

Windows  of  Gold 133 

Due   North i35 

That  Which  Remains 138 


10 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  WAS 


The  House  That  Was 

Who  art  thou,  ghastly  creature,  grinning  clown ; 
Imbiber  of  clear  death,  the  ecstasy 
Of  horror,  newly  shoveled  from  the  grave? 
What  irks  those  burned-out  craters,  once  were 

eyes  ? — 
(They  stare  so  steadfast)  and  that  beetled  brow, 
What  roofs  It  that  it  wrinkles-on  so  long? 
And  wherefore  teeth?    Thou  canst  not  swallow 

food; 
Nor  hast  a  tongue  to  savor  with.     A  dog 
Might  snifi  some  virtue  in  thee,  thou  rank  skull. 
There  is  not;  nay! — thy  virtue  Is  to  rot! 
They  turned  thee  out  for  that. 

13 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

It  is  not  long, 
Not  very  long  ago,  new-born,  a  babe. 
Thou  wast  warm-pillowed  on  a  mother's  breast; 
Lulled  with  the  lift  and  droop  of  it,  to  sleep, 
And  blinking  puzzled  eyes  for  that  the  sun 
Made  friends  with  thee,  a  fellow  citizen. 
When  thou  didst  fall  awake  at  last,  to  be 
One  with  the  wide  world,  hungry,  with  reaching 
hands. 

The  world  was  wide :  thou  wentest  on  thy  knees, 
Doubtless  thou  didst,  a  pilgrimage  of  love 
To  every  corner  of  it,  being  still 
The  veritable  great  space  of  one  square  room: 
For  thee  it  was  the  world. 

What  made  thee  stand? 
Thy  little  fingers,  clutching  on  a  chair, 

14 


The  House  That  Was 

Enfranchised  thee  of  fellowship  and  fee 
In  all  dimensions  of  the  sun  and  moon, — 
Hillocks  and  grass-deep  meadows,  and  the  run 
Of  open  fallows  smelling  of  sweet  ground. 

There  was  a  window,  doubtless,  near  the  dawn, 
Where   summer   mornings   looked    at   thee    and 

smiled, 
And  bird  songs,  far  away,  and  crowing  cocks, 
Mingled  with  sleep,  till,  happy,  drowsy-eyed, 
Thou  wast  awake  once  more,  with  dewy  grass 
And  petals  of  closed  flowers,  and  precious  winds 
From  over  seas,  that  said  farewell  to  stars. 

Long  evenings  weaned   for   thee;   and   ere   thou 

slept 
The  moon  could  rise,  new-floated,  from  the  trees. 
And  set  thee  sailing  down  long  tides  away, 

15 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Before  the  twilight  ended  thee  farewell, 

Or  thou  hadst  lifted  anchor  to  the  dark. 

And  storm  there  was,  in  hours  when  trees  awake, 

With   touches  of   strong  wind   that  loosed  old 

pain 
And  comforted  itself  with  tears:  then  thou 
Heardest,  half  soothed,  and  half  in  very  awe, 
The  rush  of  torrents  in  the  thirsty  leaves; 
And  drow^sy  benisons  of  priestly  rain. 

It  must  be,  when  the  sun  set  southward,  low, 
And  frosty  nights  turned  all  the  meadows  brown, 
Thou  lookedst  into  heaven,  dull,  dark  and  cold. 
And  wast  in  raptures  that  a  snowflake  fell. 
Forerunning  winter,  in  thy  hollowed  hand. 
Nay,  surely,  thou  didst  find  the  first  far  wings 
Of   northward   swallows,   when   the   fast-locked 
ground 

i6 


The  House  That  Was 

Broke  open  to  the  lustiness  of  spring, 
And  little  leaves  were  thrusting-polnts  of  joy; — 
When   long-forgotten   fragrances  once  more 
Entered  the  gateways,  trooping,  like  young  girls, 
And,  arm  in  arm,  the  songs  of  summer  came. 

Thou  wast  a  boy  ere  childhood  wept  for  thee. 
And  bathed  in  brooks  or  wallowed  in  warm  hay ; 
Far,  windy  hill-tops  beckoned  thee  to  go 
Beyond  them,  flaming,  full  of  western  gold. 
And  down  long  lanes,  however  swift  thy  feet, 
Thy  dreams  flew  faster,  shadowed  with  blown 
cloud. 

Betimes  thy  boyhood  fell  from  thee;  a  lad. 
Thou  didst  no  more  pluck  happiness,  alone 
On  unfrequented  feeding-slopes  of  joy; 
But  soughtest-out  thy  fellows,  and  wast  found 

17 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

With  young,  gruff  voices,  emulous  to  lead. 
And  now,  with  finger-tips  that  touched  thine  eyes, 
First  love  bewitched  thee,  just  when  buds  were 

new, 
And  birds  broke  open  beauty  in  blue  sky. 
One  face  was  real,  of  rapture;  others  came, 
Like  shadows,  in  and  out  the  dream,  but  she 
Both  sleep  and  waking  sunnyed  with  one  smile. 

Thus  far  we  follow  thee:  then  thou  dost  go — 
A  brook  abashed  for  leafy  sanctities — 
Into  green  depths  of  murmurous  surmise. 
Only  we  hear  thy  music,  afterwhiles, 
A  little  space,  thy  laughter,  dying  down 
To  distance,  fringed-on  with  blown  sighs 
And  far-borne  voices  from  a  lonely  hill. 
Dying? — thou  art  gone. 


i8 


The  House  That  Was 

We  know  no  more; 
Save,  somewhere,  under  stars,  when  twilight  fell, 
Thy  full  course  led  thee,  brimming,  to  the  sea, 
And  lost  thee  there.     Brown  skull,  we  know  no 

more. 
And  yet,  it  may  be,  piecing  here  and  there 
Our  dreams  of  thee,  we  may  bloom  back  again 
Some  semblance  of  an  old  time  certitude, — 
The  sunset  light  of  what  thy  noon-days  were. 

Thou  wast  a  man,  and  didst  drink  life,  not  ease. 
The  man   thou  wast  most  certainly   did  stand 
Face-forward  in  the  open  fields  of  fight: 
Thou  hast  been  seaward  like  a  rocky  wall 
And  felt  the  grinding  thunder  at  thy  gates, 
When  oceans  stirred :   thy  battlements  besieged 
Have  weathered-out  the  cruel  cannon  quake, 
The  crushing  stone  and  sickening,  barbed  hail: 

19 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Thou  art  all  smooth  with  searching  winds  of 
fate. 

Who  turned  thy  face  against  the  multitude, 
And  set  thee  in  the  shadow  of  defeat? 
Why  didst  thou  stand  mid-current  of  them  all, 
And  lift  thine  eyes  to  perilous,  proud  ways? 

In  autumn  twilight  'twas  thy  wont  to  turn 
Across  the  fields,  and  leave  thy  toil  behind; 
Plodding  the  stubbled  furrows  where  the  ground 
Was  caked  and  dry  with  sun  and  little  rain. 
And   breathing  smoke-drift   from   a  brushwood 

pile 
Some    woodsman    built    and    covered   with    dry 

leaves ; 
And  often,  then,  the  sky  burned  up  in  flame 
That  smouldered  down  through  glories  of  heaped 

cloud, 

20 


The  House  That  Was 

To  leave  at  last,  In  rifts,  a  molten  star. 

Thy  heart  burned   also,  doubtless,  with  strong 

pain 
For  beauty  that  It  loved,  and  could  not  stay; 
And  wonder  stirred  within  thee,  as  If  winds, 
Long   sleeping   through   the   night,   remembered 

dawn. 

And  when,   some   March-bewildered   afternoon, 

The  sun  warmed  out  on  rivulets  of  rain, 

And   showed   the   speckled   snow,   washed,   here 

and  there. 
From  patches  of  bare  ground  where  Earth  gaped 

through, 
Brown  as  a  gypsy  tattered  without  shame, 
Thou  didst  exult  to  breathe  the  homely  sward, 
And  smell  the  grass,  pale,  trampled — but  alive. 
And  sometimes,  In  sharp  winter,  on  a  hill 

21 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Well  fledged  with  sombre  firs,  against  clear  sky, 
The  wind  blew  snow-dust  on  the  frosted  snow, 
And  leaning  back  for  breath,  hands  over  ears. 
Thou  wast  caught  up  In  one  sheer  rush  of  joy, 
And  laughed  for  living. 

There  were  other  times  .  .  . 
How    many    weary    hours    hast    thou    starved 

through. 
With  not  one  spark  of  jubilant,  sweet  fire? 
No  doubt  thou  didst  go  singing  In  the  rain. 
And  trudged  on  gaily  through  the  driving  snow ; 
But  elsewhere  there  were  days  with  thee,   too 

utter  sad 
For  any  singing;  days  when  winds  had  died. 
And  hollow  mists  shut  heaven's  breath  away: 
Days  In  the  ruck  of  winter,  when  the  snow, 
All  mired  with  wheels,  lay  rotting  In  the  roads, 

22 


The  House  That  Was 

And  nothing  came,  and  no  one  sang  along, 
And  only  out  of  window  were  wet  trees, 
Or  sodden  snow,  or  clothes  upon  a  line. 

And  days  there  were,  we  dream,  blown  past 
On  driven  wings  of  stormy-scattered  cloud, 
When  hope  was  killed  and  panic  rode  the  sky, 
Skirling :  when  trees  wept  leaves,  and  tossed,  and 

cried, 
And  in  the  key-hole  spirits  of  the  lost 
Sang  lamentations  for  their  loves  who  died 
Long   since,    in    some    grey   twilight   of    bleak 

shores, 
Far  northward,  where  the  world  is  one  wide  woe. 
There  were  other  times?    There  were  .  .  . 

To  lose  is  hard, 
But  living  out  a  loss  is  worse.    And  thou, 

23 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

We  dream  it,  even  on  such  stricken  days 
Drew  out  a  loss  to  each  horizon  line, 
Till  sea  and  sky  an  aching  emptiness, 
The  sun  sank  down  and  let  the  hunger  go. 

What  bore  thee  on,  confronting  that  grey  sky, — 
That  tedious  path  and  pitiless,  blind  rain? 
What  urge  of  patience  held  thy  weary  prow 
Against  the  hollows  of  that  homeless  sea? 

A  ringing  axe  puts  edge  into  the  blood : 

Is't  fancy? — was  it  thine  to  swing  stout  strokes 

Upon  the  bodies  of  big,  burly  trees, 

And  open  clearings  with  their  crashing  fall ; — 

To  lop  the  boughs,  and  sled  the  log-wood  home? 

It  was;  thou  didst;  oh,  surely,  old,  brown  skull. 

On  many  a  morning  smelling  of  mild  spring. 
We  picture  thee  a-ploughing,  thy  two  hands 

24 


The  House  That  Was 

Held  hard  on  handles,  guiding  the  clean  share; 
Down  field  and  back,  not  checking  save  to  turn. 
Or  lift  a  root  that  hindered  thee;  and  then, 
Back  against  tree — for  comfort,  not  for  shade — 
With  knife  and  loaf  and  water-jug  of  stone, 
Making  the  mid-day  meal  with  quiet  mind. 
Not  long;  for  down  a  windy  afternoon 
We   see   thee   ploughing    still,    with    chirp    and 

whoa, 
Till  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  sun  dips  down 
And  leaves  clear  light  to  dwindle  into  stars. 
Ah,  then,  unhitching  from  the  plough  the  team. 
Straight-backed    at    last,    with   eyes    above    the 

ground. 
How  happy  in  thy  weariness  thou  art; 
And  how  the  dusk  adds  welcome  to  thy  door! 

Was  it  thy  strength,  thy  sinews  and  hard  hands, 

25 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

That  made  thee  tremble  when  the  south  winds 

blew? 
It  seemed  a  trumpet  stirred  In  some  far  land, 
And  set  thy  blood  up-answerIng  In  flame; 
A  rally  call  and  reveille  that  sang 
Beyond  the  world,  a  thousand  years  ago: 
That  sighed  and  left  thee  fainter  than  before. 

Once  more  we  dream :  late  April  Is  it  now. 
Late  April  Is  It;  under  last  year's  leaves 
The  Mayflower  hides,  and  yellow  marigolds 
In  oozy  meadows  lavish,  like  the  sun, 
Their  smiles  and  laughter,  clothed-on  with  clear 

joy- 

Now  every  silence  is  run  sweet  with  streams. 
And  gurgle  notes  that  scatter  Into  song 
From  boughs  faint  budding  for  the  lips  of  May; 
Now  windy  shadows  quicken,  and  the  light 

26 


The  House  That  Was 

Is  blown  too  high  to  tremble-out  with  day, 
But  lingers  to  slow  stars,  and  frogs  set  free 
Of  old  brown  marshes  wrinkled  to  the  moon. 

Late  April  is  it;  down  the  windy  lane 

And  through  the  wall  thou  art,  with  afternoon 

And  April — and  a  maid ;  but  only  her, 

Not  afternoon  or  April,  heedest  thou — 

So  sweetly  at  thy  side  she  is,  so  dear — 

But  only  her  thou  heedest,  till,  just  where 

The  meadow^  rims,  in  one  grey  ledge  of  stone, 

Down  sitting  at  her  side,  a  shyness  falls. 

Thou  dost  not  hear  the  brisk-blown  junipers. 
That  stir;  the  far  off  cry  and  answer  call 
Of  scouting  crows;  the  west  wind  in  the  grass: 
Thou  hearest  only  how  thine  own  two  ears 
Are  beating  panic,  nor  dost  trust  thine  eyes 
The  venture  now  so  desperate  to  be  done. 

27 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Late  April  is  it,  and  late  afternoon; 
Along  the  lane  the  shadows  are  unflowed ; 
A  planet  walks  the  hill,  and  in  the  sky 
The  wind  blows  violets  and  April  green. 
Thou  heedest  not  nor  heedeth  she,  at  all, 
Home-wending,  save  of  eyes. 

Where  are  they  gone. 
Blind  skull;  those  eyes? — and  where  indeed  is 

now 
Their  sacrificial  fire?     Down  what  pale  west 
Of  sloping  stars,  with  what  doomed  winds  were 

they 
Sent  flickering;  those  torches  of  delight? 

Death  lives  in  silence,  ever ;  not  a  sound 
Of  all  thou  spakest  once  is  left  in  thee 
As  in  old,  ivied  walls  there  lives  again, 

28 


The  House  That  Was 

On  windy  nights,  the  wassail  and  sharp  song 
Of  times  long  buried  and  burned  out  in  flame. 
Where    are    they    gone;    thy    wonderful    wild 

words  ? — 
Thy    w^hispers,    broken,    and    thy    pleadings — 

where  ? 

Still  thou  art  silent;  desolate  thou  art, 
And  none  there  is  of  all  that  sang  in  thee: 
Nor  ever  will  be? 

Oh,  forgetful  feet! 
Summer  has  waned  once  more,   and   thou,  old 

skull, 
Art  thou  forgetful  of  her  passing,  too? 
Did  spring  pass  by,  and  leave  thee  nothing  new  ? 
Did  summer  touch  thee  not?     (She  went  to  die.) 
Hast  thou  no  tears  for  autumn,  nothing  paid 
Of  her  sad  price;  no  dole  of  sorrowing? 

29 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Almost  it  seems  thou  art,  as  once,  here  gone 
Through  goldenrod  and  aster,  under  leaves 
Heart's  blood  incarnadined.     Not  long  thy  feet 
Have  crushed  this  moss,  this  fallen  log  not  long 
Has  shredded  with  thy  coming;  down  the  glade 
It  almost  seems  thy  head  and  shoulders  are. 
And  this  same  sadness,  surely,  was  thine  too, — 
Of  haze  and  hilltop  and  brown,  heaped-up  grain, 
And  solemn  hush  as  if  old  battles  were, 
A  breath  might  rumor  of;  one  breath  too  far 
Beyond  the  hills  to  rumble  now  of  war. 
But  still  remembered  and  still  waited  for. 

On  such  a  day,  we  dream,  thou  wentest  down. 
Through  woody  shadows  out  on  open  fields, 
Child's  fingers  in  each  hand.     A  tumbled  wall, 
A  lane,   more  woods,   a  turnpike,   farmyards — 
then 

30 


The  House  That  Was 

The  quiet  village  and  the  village  green, 

In  silence  of  sweet  sabbath  soothed  with  bells. 

There  in  the  meeting-house  thou  sattest  down, 
Straight-backed  and  grave  beyond  thy  children's 

ken. 
Who  loved  the  slanted  windows — leaking  sky 
And  dusty  chestnut  leaves  and  locust  song — 
More    than    the    preacher    and    his    deep-toned 

prayer. 
Through  all  the  sermon  thou  wast  still  the  same. 
Hearing  of  life  hereafter,  heaven  and  hell. 
Of  righteousness  and  judgment  and  the  pains 
That  follow  closely  on  all  evil  done. 

Lift  up  thy  heart? — indeed  thou  didst  do  so; 
What  though  thine  eyes  found  beauty  most  in 
law, 

31 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

And  saw  worst  sin  in  broken  rectitude — 

And  law  is  beautiful,  and  sin  is  death — 

Thou  didst,  brave  soul,  thou  didst  lift  up  thy 
heart. 

Returning  over  fields,  sedate  and  slow, 
Hands  behind  back,  thy  children  out  before. 
It  must  be  thou  didst  breathe,  oh,  surely,  some 
Old,  pagan  joy  of  fallows,  and  wide  fields 
Stacked  stiff  with  grain;  of  free,  soft  sky 
And  children's  voices,  Indian-ambushing. 
It  must  be,  too,  the  sadness  of  the  time. 
The  fade  of  autumn  sparing  not  its  hand, — 
Of  death  foreshadowed  and  not  far,  prevailed. 
And  somewhat  cried  in  thee. 

Oh,  surely,  thou 
Didst  dread  to  die;  to  let  warm  life  turn  pale 

32 


The  House  That  Was 

And  in  thy  lips  be  kissing-bright  no  more. 
Surely  there  came  of  thee  a  pagan  prayer 
For  one  deep  draught  of  such  a  depth  in  joy, 
Oblivion  should  not  blemish  it  nor  time 
Set  down  in  dust  of  bitterness,  to  die: — 
One  spark  of  beauty  beaten  beyond  pain; 
One  breath  of  flowers  that  not  just  mortal  are. 

Of  what  chimed  seas  on  what  enchanted  shore 
Art  resonant,  thou  empty  shell,  that  art 
So  naked  hollow,  hearing  now  no  more? 
From  what  grey  dawning  on  a  sightless  sea 
Didst  thou  set  sail?    What  winds  of  prophecy 
Went  with  thee? — who  prepared  thy  prow; 
By  what  pale  stars  who  steered  thee,  moving  on 
Through    dreaming    twilights    for    unfathomed 
years  ? 


33 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

There  was  a  whisper  in  thy  heart,  a  song 
Older  than  time,  younger  than  break-of-day ; — 
The  voice  of  winds  in  tree-tops  before  dawn; 
Of  children,  laughing  over  fields,  in  June; 
Of  rain  on  roofs,  at  nightfall ;  of  soft  waves 
Down  wet,  brown  beaches,  sighing  back  to  sea; — 
Of  beauty  touched  with  lips  .  .  .  and  lost  again. 

The  whisper  went,  long  since:  the  sound  of  rain 
Is  on  the  roofs  at  nightfall,  still;  the  leaves 
Still,  still  are  murmurous  at  daybreak;  still 
Wash  the  spent  waves  down  beaches  as  before. 
But  not  for  thee:  thou  hearest  not  at  all. 

What  went  from  thee  that  heard  ?    What  echoes 

died 
In  thy  deep  caves ;  what  ecstasy  arose 
From  thy  so  silent  peaks,  and  soared  in  sky? 

34 


The  House  That  Was 

Out  of  thy  listening,  what  throated  bird; — 
From  thy  still  pools,  what  bubbles  of  drowned 
song? 

Thou  art  as  silent  as  untroubled  strings. 
Long  mute,  a  master  sang  upon;  as  calm 
As  a  faint,  forest  lake,  where  winds  have  gone 

away. 
Thou  art  a  rock  dead  oceans  wrestled  with, 
And  left  forever,  channeled  with  their  flame, 
For  winter  snows  to  sleep  with,  and  chill  sky. 

And  yet,  there  is  a  sound  in  thee,  cold  skull, 
Too  cobweb-thin  for  ears,  too  frail  to  die. 
Such  sound  as  follows  singing,  when  a  bird 
Has    fluted    once    and    flown,     and    sings    no 

more: 
Such  sound  as  breathes  out  petal  sighs  that  fall 

35 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

When  stars  touch  roses,  or  a  late  moon  strays 
Through  sleeping  gardens  of  the  long  ago. 

Yes,  there  is  music  in  thee ;  as  a  stone — 

Shed  from  some  ancient  capital,  and  found, 

After  slow  centuries  of  creeping  mould. 

All  grown  with  moss  and  crumbled  with  decay — 

With  every  broken  leaf,  in  each  blurred  line. 

Sings  of  its  haughty  lineage  for  aye. 

Over  that  arching  brow  how  tenderly 

Does  time  turn  back;  with  what  reluctant  feet 

The  wasting  seasons  pause  and  pass  it  by. 

How  reverent  the  sunlight  is,  with  those 

So  empty  eyes;  how  lovingly  the  gloom 

Fills  the  bare  vaults  where  beauty  burned  away. 

The  whisper  went:  the  marks  of  it  remain.  .  .  . 
O  precious  skull,  thou  art  still  answering ! 

36 


A  Pathway  to  the  Stars 

A  SHIP  in  doldrums,  dripped  the  weather-vane,- 
Bereft  of  wind  its  gallant  sails  of  gold; 
The  morning  snow  had  weakened  into  rain, 
And  rain  turned  drizzle  by  late  afternoon. 
And  now  came  evening  on,  and  like  a  swoon, 
Out  of  the  sea  a  slow  miasma  rolled. 

Close  to  the  walls  it  clung,  and  blurred  away, 
Like  beetling  crags,  their  dizzy  slopes  of  fire ; 
Near  to  the  ground  it  crept  along,  and  lay 
Coiled-up  for  passers-by,  or  swayed  enthralled 
Before  bright  windows,  or,  reminded,  crawled 
Its  loathsome  length  above  the  beaten  mire. 

37 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

The  yellow  street-lamps  swam  like  moons  gone 

pale 
Behind  blown  cloud;  the  river  whistles  were 
A  moan  of  baying  monsters  on  the  trail 
Of  some  doomed  quarry,  questing  in  the  dark. 
Such  nights  smear  moss  on  tombstones,  and  black 

mark 
Cold  chapel  walls,  and  make  death  dismaler. 


Where  two  streets  joined,  out  of  the  murk,  for- 
lorn. 
Unheralded,  they  came.     Hatless  was  she, 
Ill-kempt,  slack-shod,  her  garments  shabby-worn. 
His  arm  fast  locked,  she  leaned  and  with  her  eyes 
Searched  his:  her  lips  spelled  Paradise. 
A  little,  dingy  city-bred  was  he. 

38 


A  Pathway  to  the  Stars 

So  they  passed  on,  adown  that  sodden  street, 
Together,  in  sweet,  isolate  disdain; 
And  so  the  mist  closed  in  behind  their  feet 
Who  went  so  foolish-free  of  all  delight 
Through  that  amazing,  pitiless,  foul  night; — 
Two  moon-mad  lovers  in  a  country  lane. 

Oh,  high-born  stoics! — they  had  burst  the  bars, 
And  dwelt  deliberate  with  freedom;  they 
Trod    the   true   path,    drinking   not   clouds    but 

stars : 
Souls  and  not  raindrops  danced  before  their  eyes. 
And  in  their  train  a  wind  blew  butterflies.  .  .  . 
They  passed,  and  lo — the  walks  were  white  with 

May. 


39 


Brick  Walls 

On  old  brick  walls  new  sunlight  falls, 
And  this  .  .  .  suggests  a  story. 

Once,  in  the  far  off  times,  there  came, 

On  horseback,  hunting  glory, 
A  young  sir-knight  to  court,  whose  fame 
Sang  through  the  lists  like  sudden  flame 
And  smote  the  turrets  hoary. 

He  overtoppled  horse  and  man 

In  every  joust  he  tilted; 
Never  there  rode  since  world  began 
A  finer  lance  with  more  elan ; 

And  as  he  struck,  they  wilted. 
40 


Brick  Walls 

Flower  and  pride,  young  blade  and  old, 

They  bit  the  dust  before  him; 
Doffed  at  the  dais  his  casque,  down  rolled 
Ringlets  and  ringlets  of  gold  on  gold 
The  sea  wind  scattered  o'er  him. 

Then  must  the  trumpets  split  in  twain 
The  hush  that  rose  around  him; 
Over  his  head  the  victor's  chain. 
The  blossomy  wreath,  the  flushed  disdain 
Of  glory  that  had  found  him. 


"Only  a  boy!" — the  murmur  ran; 

"A  boy,  to  humble  giants!" 
The  king  made  sport,  as  brave  kings  can 
"What! — was  there  no  mustachioed  man 

To  beard  this  boy's  defiance? 
41 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

"Where  is  the  brace  of  gallant  blades 
Who  strutted  through  a  measure, 

Last  evening,  with  as  many  maids? 

To-night,  I  wot,  not  hearts  but  spades 
Must  serve  my  royal  pleasure!" 

He  made  him  captain  of  his  host, 

This  golden,  gifted  stranger; 
In  public  state  he  drank  his  toast, — 
Wined  him  and  dined  him,  oft,  but  most 

He  tempered  him  with  danger. 

On  nine  great  battlefields  the  boy 

Strewed  victory  behind  him; 
The  hotter  fight,  the  fiercer  joy: 
His  shield  showed  Mars,  who  cried  "Destroy!", 

But  he  himself  outshined  him. 
42 


Brick  Walls 

It  seemed  the  world  was  his,  who  rose 
Like  day-dawn,  in  bright  rapture: 

He  might  have  snatched  the  crown;  who  knows? 

Him,  at  the  brink,  his  frightened  foes 
By  treachery  did  capture. 

He  never  saw  the  sky  again, 

Whose  age  was  love-and-Iaughter; 

They  walled  him  up,  and  hung  a  chain, 

Heavy  with  iron  links  and  pain, 
On  him   forever   after. 

Once,  when  his  friends,  by  stealth,  I'm  told, 

Wrought  bribery  to  aid  him; 
Inside  a  cask  they  hid,  and  rolled 
Him,  joyful;  but  one  hair  of  gold 

Escaped  them  and  betrayed  him. 
43 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

He  never  saw  his  peaks  of  snow 

Again,  young  hooded  eagle; 
But  pined  away  long  years  of  woe. 
The  prisoner's  name  was  Enzio; 

His  flight  of  fame  was  regal. 

Sometimes,  when  the  sunlight  falls, 

In  springtime,  through  the  city, 
And  dies  of  heartbreak  on  brick  walls — 
God  never  meant  it  should — cold  walls — 

I  think  of  him,  and  pity. 

I  think  of  boyish  Enzio, 

Bright  moulded  unto  glory; 
Who  never,  never  more  could  know 
The  free,  wide  air,  the  battle  glow. 

(Spring  sunlight  .  .  .  and  a  story.) 
44 


Wharves  and  Warehouses 

Tilted  stacks  and  sprawling  cranes ; 
Shrewd  cries  and  engine  screech; 

Hoofs  that  pound, 

Blow^s  that  sound; 
Cotton  bales  and  coffee  grains; 
Cargoes  swung  in  looped-up  chains; — 

Oaths  and  vulgar  speech. 

Next  the  wharf  a  warehouse  lies: 
Shuttered  windows  thw^art  the  day, 

And  within 

Dies  the  din ; — 
On  the  fragrant  darkness  dies, 

45 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Where  rich  heaps  of  merchandise 
Doze  the  hours  away. 

All  agog  with  ebb  and  flow, 
Life  is  like  a  wharf,  it  seems. 

Rough,  rude  men 

We  are,  then. 
But,  behind  the  noise  and  show, 
There  are  silences  we  know, — 

Warehouses  of  dreams. 


46 


The  Sky  from  a  Dentist's  Chair 

Dull  attic  windows  blankly  stare, — 

A  pitiless  horizon; 
Over  the  roofs  the  sky  is  fair; 
I  probe  it  from  the  plush-proud  chair 

That  all  my  daring  dies  on. 

How  free  and  favored  is  a  sky, 

With  naught  to  have  a  care  to! 

How  sweetly  soft  the  clouds  drift  by; — 

How  happily  they  float,  while  I 

An  anguished  tooth  am  heir  to! 

47 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Nay,  Mother  Earth,  they  do  not  well 

Who  knead  thee  with  such  leaven  ; 

Good  flesh  and  blood's  too  choice  to  sell;  — 

Better  a  mortal  man,  in  Hell, 

Than  shapeless  mist,  in  Heaven! 


48 


For  Value  Received 

He  chirped,  the  farmer's  boy,  the  team 
Tugged  at  the  plough  at  break  of  day; 
He  drove  straight  furrows,  but  his  dream 
Was  of  the  city,  far  away. 


In  the  north  woods  a  noble  pine 
Aimed  at  the  stars  its  poignant  youth. 
They  felled  it,  pleading  this,  in  fine : 
Truth  must  have  paper.     Long  live  Truth ! 

********** 


49 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

The  very  sparrows  know  it ;  he — 

Poor,  blear-eyed  sinner,  sprawling  there 

On  the  park  bench,  dejectedly — 

Is  harmless.  (How  a  man  would  scare!) 

A  paper  with  blurred  print  is  prone 
On  the  wet  walk,  brief  life  at  end ; 
(How  quickly  stale  is  news!)   the  stone 
Clings  to  it  closel}^,  friend  to  friend. 

(God,  on  our  hurried  hearts  look  down!) 
Is  it,  oh,  is  it  good  that  we 
Forget  the  price  that  paves  the  town? 
This  was  a  man ;  that  was  a  tree. 


50 


Sanctuary 

Like  sparks  above  a  windy  fire, 
Stars  In  the  dawn-draft  drifted  higher; 
Deep-etched,  the  pines  In  distance  grew 
Clearer  against  the  sky;  then  dew 
Woke  on  the  grass ;  a  bold  cock  crew, — 
And  all  the  birds  came,  choir  on  choir. 

I  dressed,  and  as  I  turned  the  stair 
The  sunlight  was  already  there; 
The  windy  sky  was  washed  with  rain, — 
A  flash  of  gold  the  weather-vane ; 
In  grey  and  green,  along  the  lane, 
The  frisking  willows  loosed  their  hair. 

51 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

That  was  this  morning:  not  yet  noon, 
And  I  am  back  again — so  soon. 
This  is  the  happy  holiday, 
The  village  folk  are  blithe  and  gay; 
I  was  not  happy  there  to-day, — 
I  found  it  strangely  out  of  tune. 


Often  as  not,  when  I  am  glad. 
And  fling  myself  on  life,  with  mad, 
Most  eager  merriment  of  eyes, 
A  veil  of  cloud  creeps  up  the  skies; 
The  wind  turns  cold;  a  woman  sighs: 
I  laugh;  but  vainly — I  am  sad. 


52 


Sanctuary 

And  so  to-day:  its  joys,  in  view, 
Woke  me  before  the  dawn  came  through. 
I  did  my  dreams  of  gaiety; 
And  they  are  done,  and  I  am  he 
Who  comes,  unhappy,  here,  to  be 
Quiet,  my  old,  old  friend,  with  you. 


53 


Scholars  in  Stained  Glass  ^ 

A  LEDGE  of  silence  lifted  from  the  sea; 
They  care  not,  here,  what  surge  is  forged  be- 
low,— 
With  faces  to  the  dawn,  how  windily 
Over  their  heads  the  shattered  storm-clouds  go: 
They  heed  not,  save  of  far  horizons,  dim 
With     doubtful     prophecies,     or    flecked    with 

dreams ; 
Seeing  the  lanterns  and  fast-fading  spars 
Of  happy  convoys  slipping  down  the  rim, 
Beyond  pale  w^estern  islands  and  the  beams 
Of  misted  moons  that  breathe  upon  the  stars. 


^A  window  in  St.  Paul's  School,  Concord,  N.  H. 

54 


Scholars  in  Stained  Glass 

They  too  had  dreams;  on  many  a  wind-blown 

West 
Unbarred  their  casements,  and  with  wistful  eyes 
Into  the  evening's  cloudy  palimpsest 
Peered  deep.    Much  more  they  were  than  wise, 
Who  heard  the  music  piping  shepherds  made 
On  olive  slopes  in  snow-crowned  Sicily, 
And  watched  the  bacchic  chorus  cleave  the  glade 
With    thyrsus    rod    and    midnight    mirth    and 

wine ; — 
Who  lost  the  songs  of  Sappho  in  the  sea, 
And  sat  at  meat  with  Plato  the  divine. 

In  reverend  stole  and  ample  velvet  gown. 
Pacing  sequestered  precincts  as  of  yore, 
Into  young  eyes  benignantly  look  down 
The  great  Erasmus  and  Sir  Thomas  More. 
On  winter  nights  warm  sconces  from  within 

55 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Waft  out  their  colors  on  the  drifted  snow; 
And  in  charmed  twilight,  when  late  birds  begin, 
From  these  fond  panes  fades  out  the  First  of 

June. 
Ah,  youth  is  short,  the  heyday  is  too  soon ; — 
Scholars  of  olden  time,  we  would  not  go. 

The  deep  tides  quicken,   now,  the  West  blows 

dim, 
Who  sails  to-night  goes  seaward  with  the  wind; 
Who  sails  to-night  will  take  one  prayer  with  him 
For  old,  lost  altars  blurring-out  behind: 
And  in  some  city  of  vain  gods  will  turn 
Down  barren  streets,  at  ending  of  the  day, 
And  of  a  sudden  be  with  them  who  are 
Here  charactered ;  made  deathless,  as  are  they. 
Oh,  deathless  draught  of  beauty,  to  discern. 
Over  estranging  years,  that  one  white  star ! 

S6 


The  Minster  Statue  on  Christmas 
Eve^ 

The  storm  has  ceased  for  you  below, 

Up  here  the  flakes  still  fly; 
In  sweeping  gusts  they  come  and  go 
About  these  battlements  of  snow: 

With  you  the  worst  is  by. 

The  comfort  of  your  homeward  feet 

Is  missing,  here  on  high  ; 
Ye  darken  down  each  twilight  street, 
And  some  ye  pass  and  some  ye  greet: 

Here  it  is  open  sky. 


*By  kind  permission  of  Scribner's  Magazine. 

57 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Happ)^,  ye  make  your  candles  glow, 

Each  tree  a  cherub  shrine; 
Happy,  your  stars  are  kindled  so : 
Out  of  the  rifts  of  whirling  snow 

I  grope  the  skies  for  mine. 

The  branches  of  your  gracious  trees 

Are  tenderly  bowed  down; 
Ye  scatter  gifts,  of  joy  and  ease: 
My  gifts  are  thorny  galaxies, — 

A  cross,  or  else  a  crown. 

My   sword-hilt  sparkles   at  my  side; 

Accoutered  still,   I  stand: 
Ye  ride  no  more,  who  once  did  ride 
With  levelled  lance  and  puissant  pride. 

To  carve  me  through  the  land. 

58 


The  Minster  Statue  on  Christmas  Eve 

My  bells,  with  thunder  in  their  throats, 

]\Iake  music  where  ye  are; 
The  clamor  of  their  earthquake  notes 
Down  to  your  peaceful  valleys  floats 

Like  starlight  from  a  star. 

The  storm  has  ceased  for  you  below, 

Up  here  the  flakes  still  fly; 
In  sweeping  gusts  they  come  and  go 
About  these  battlements  of  snow: 

With  you  the  worst  is  by. 


59 


The  Flag 

We  left  Saint  Michael's  Mount ;  we  left  the  sea, 
And  struck  straight  inland  with  the  freshening 

wind 
Into  a  country  very  fair  and  free ; — 
Of  fields  and  woods  and  rolling  hills  behind, — 
The  pleasant  fief  of  Anne  of  Brittany. 

Full  seven  days  we  wandered  up  and  down 

In  deep  antiquity,  but  marvelled  more 

At    maidens'    caps — which    marked    a    different 

town — 
Or  men  with  streamers,  or  what  children  wore, 
Than  all  of  Baedeker's  close-cropped  renown. 

60 


The  Flag 

Full  seven  days  in  that  enchanted  land, 

Like  children  with  new  Christmas  toys,  we  hung 

On    each    fresh    glimpse,    each    open    doorway 

scanned. 
Hearing  no  echoes  of  our  English  tongue, 
Looking  in  faces  slow  to  understand. 

Full  seven  days:  then  turned  reluctantly. 
Through  long,  grey  villages,  towards  home  again ; 
Till,  tasting  salt,  a  wind  from  tree  to  tree 
Came   shouting:    then    a   headland,    green   with 

grain. 
And  out  beyond  it,  shimmering,  the  sea. 

The  Coast  of  Emerald !     How  strange  to  eyes 
Grown  shy  with  countr}^  solitudes,  the  throng; 
The  gay  hotels  and  streets ;  how  loud  the  cries ! — 
And,  oh,  how  lately  lost,  and  yet,  how  long, 
That  very  morning's  quiet  fields  and  skies! 

6i 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

A  bending  bow,  the  beach  curved  to  the  land, 
Its    brink   wreathed    round    with    breakers    and 

bright  foam; 
Where  girls  and  boys,  like  Greeks,  gone  hand  in 

hand. 
Stepped   through    the   shallows.     Up   the  shore 

was  Rome, 
A  frowning  league  of  castles  in  the  sand. 

Piled  up  like  laughter:  each  artificer 
With  his  good  spade  had  wrought  to  his  desire, 
And  they  w^ho  builded  them  proud  patriots  were; 
Upon  each  rampart  rippled  forth,  like  fire, 
A  Marseillaise  of  sun — the  tricouleur. 

We  watched  them,  smiling,  hearts  still  left  behind 
In  ancient  peace;  till,  suddenly  made  known, 
A  new  flag  woke,  and  fluttered  free,  and  shined. 

62 


The  Flag 

A  tiny  bit  of  silk  some  child  had  flown, 
Its  stars  swept  France,  and  France  went  down 
the  wind. 

All  the  sweet  lure  of  storied  lives  that  lay 
Long-buried  in  that  legendary  mould ; — 
All  the  charmed  past,  grew  dim  and  died  away; 
And  lovely,  in  clean  sunlight,  young,  not  old, 
Our  own  land  smiled :  sad,  outworn  myths  were 
they. 


63 


Once  Upon  a  Time 

They  told  me  beauty  was  all,  long  ago, 
Lived  out  and  sealed  in  cerements  of  cold  time; 
Tombed  with  sad  obsequies,  wept  and  laid  low, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  subsequent  renown: 
The  age  of  gold,  they  said,  had  spent  its  prime, 
Once;  and  forever  after,  blown  sublime. 
In  one  long  sunset  hopelessly  went  down. 

They  told  no  truth,  for  as  bright  flowers  decline, 
And  leave  pale  ghosts  for  winds  to  waft  away, 
Beauty  but  breathed,  and  lo,  like  Proserpine, 
Their  gloomings  vanished,  suddenly,  in  air: 
Beauty  but  breathed,  once,  gently,  half  in  play, 

64 


Once  Upon  a  Time 

And  now  I  know  there  fs  no  yesterday 
Where  beauty  breathes;  time  is  not  tasted  there. 

I  celebrate  no  fount  w^hose  waters  flow 
From  sacred  hill-slopes,  haunted  of  old  rhyme 
Since  raptured  Helicon  burst  out  below, 
And  Aganippe  matched  the  Hippocrene 
Impatient  Pegasus  struck  forth  from  slime; 
But  a  mere  brook,  in  no  heroic  time, 
Flowing  through  meadows  full  of  early  green. 

Nor  sing  I,  as  did  shepherds,  piping  praise, 
Of  nymphs  they  startled,  featly,  by  a  stream, 
At  top  of  noon,  when  flocks  were  left  to  graze; — 
Haply  a  herdsman,  seeking  out  some  shade, 
In  reverie  the  while,  half  thought,  half  dream ; 
Who  saw,  then  luckless  lost,  in  one  white  gleam. 
The  naked  shoulders  of  no  mortal  maid. 

6s 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

The  brook  I  sing  has  no  such  deities, 
But  white  of  cloud  and  dark  of  end-of-day; 
Its  willows  weep  no  broken  threnodies, 
Over  its  pebbles  flute  no  pipes  of  Pan; 
Yet  lovely  is,  no  less :  the  lips  of  May 
Bend  to  its  brink,  and  all  along  its  way 
A  new  song  opens  where  each  ripple  ran. 

Here  you  and  I,  one  day,  spring-wandering, 
Came,  through  the  fields,  the  sun  was  hot,  and 

high  ; 
And  laughing,  all  alone,  nor  parleying. 
Doffed  hose  and  shoon,  a  very  girl  and  boy, 
To  try  (we  knew,  but  still,  we  had  to  try) 
Whither  it  went  and  whence  it  came — and  why; 
And  lost,  at  once,  the  purpose  in  the  joy. 

A  falling  tree  had  bridged  a  quiet  pool ; 
You  perched  on  it,  and  swung  a  searching  toe, 

66 


Once  Upon  a  Time 

Just  reaching,  just — oh,  bliss! — the  waters  cool, 
While  I   (you  urged)   went  boldly  overside 
Into  brave  depths :  then,  straightway,  must  we  go 
Where  rapids  called  us,  out  of  sight,  below, 
And  revelled  all  the  way  there,  through  the  tide. 

A  very  girl  and  boy;  so  went  our  play, 
And  never  thought  between  us,  once,  there  fell 
(We  were  as  young  as  shadows,  and  as  gay) 
Of  how  we  looked,  or  what  we  said — or  wore, 
Till,  sudden,  turning;  why,  I  cannot  tell — 
I  walked  not  earth  but  fields  of  asphodel — 
A  wind  blew  heaven  wide ;  I  passed  the  door. 

Marble  and  bronze  have  great  artificers 
Touched  into  tearful  likeness  of  their  dreams, 
And  left  a  few,  unaging  visioners 
To  hold  forever,  faintly,  from  afar, 

67 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

To  some  lost  beauty  trailing  off  its  beams 
Be)'ond  the  silence,  and  the  sound  of  streams, — 
The  last,  thin  radiance  of  a  fallen  star. 

Singers  have  been  who  caught  the  drifting  fire ; — 
Some  low-born  boy  impoverished  of  gold, 
Who  trembled  past  the  outposts  of  desire, 
And  uttered,  in  one  crescent-mooned  strain, 
Imperishable  secrets  of  untold. 
Unearthly  blisses  raining  down  from  old, 
Forbidden  sanctities  of  vanished  pain. 

But  living  beauty,  beauty  breathing-on, — 

No  chisel  questions  it,  no  pale  lips  rim: 

Dear   God ! — to   see   you   where   the   wind    had 

gone. 
All  in  soft  shadow,  still  as  Paradise, 
Knee-deep,  and  lifting  from  the  water's  brim 

68 


Once  Upon  a  Time 

Your    looped-up    garments  .  .  .  Star-eyed    sera- 
phim 
Came  down  and  kissed  you,  kneeling,  with  their 

eyes. 

You  never  knew ;  two  heart-beats  long,  no  more, 
I  worshipped — yet,  eternities  were  they: 
You  stirred,  I  woke,  we  frolicked  as  before. 
You  never  knew  what  light  was  in  your  hair, — 
What  rush  of  rapture  caught  my  soul  away; 
But  I — I  know  there  is  no  yesterday 
Where  beauty  breathes ;  time  is  not  tasted  there. 


69 


Reason   Has   Spoken:    Romance  Re- 
plies 

Draw  me  a  line,  you  say? — then  another? 

Letter  them  so ;  here  an  A,  there  a  B  ? 

X  follows  sure — I  admit  it,  brother; 

X  and  your  smile,  and  your  smug  "Q.E.D." 

But — if  your  B,  in  the  meanwhile,  elfish, 
Chafes  to  be  penned,  like  a  child  in  a  pew; 
Dances  about,  is  impatient,  selfish, — 
What  of  your  X? — there's  the  devil  to  do. 

Life  and  pure  reason; — say  moonshine,  rather: 
Fashion  a  yardstick  to  measure  rain. 
Stinting  your  roof — 'seems  a  deal  of  pother; 
Better  stop  leaks  and  let  lakes  remain. 

70 


Reason  Has  Spoken:  Romance  Replies 

Nay,  what  is  worse  with  you — plumb-line   and 

measure, — 
Probing  through  life  from  the  front  to  the  back, 
Is — you  spill  out  the  spice  and  the  pleasure, 
All  the  pure  juice  for  the  pulp  that  you  lack. 

I — and  O  heart  of  me,  be  it  spoken 
Bravely  as  bugles — I  choose  not  to  know. 
Shake  out  the  odds;  what! — failure's  the  token? 
So  much  the  better;  I  lose,  but — I  go! 

Horses  and  saddles,  a  road  of  danger; 
Midnight  and  moonlight,  stiff  gauntlets  and  lace; 
Swords  out  of  saddle  for  every  stranger; 
Hint  of  a  quarrel  in  each  sudden  face. 

Whither?  who  cares? — give  a  pence  to  sorrow; 
Toss  the  poor  beggar  an  alms,  then  ride — 

71 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Over  the  hills  to  the  dawn;  the  morrow 
Leaps  with  a  laugh  to  the  lips  of  his  bride! 

She  that  I  rode  for  and  fought  for,  surely, 
Out  of  the  mist,  will  be  mine  at  the  last  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  may  smile;  she  can  smile,  demurely; 
Nevertheless — I  could  wish  it  were  past. 

Draw  me  a  line,  you  say? — then  another? 
Letter  them  so;  here  an  A,  there  a  B? 
X  follows  sure — I  admit,  brother; 
There  .  .  .   (and  the  door-slam  has  spilt  out  the 
key). 


72 


Once  in  a  Life 

You  have  broken  the  bowl  of  golden  glass 

On  the  flags  of  aching  stone: 
You  have  broken  the  spell,  and  the  splendors  pass ; 

I  had  thought  ...  I  should  have  known. 

Once  in  a  life,  they  say;  is  it  true? 

There  is  much  to  mend  again : 
I  remember  our  earliest  smile;  do  you? 

The  night  the  v^ind  smelled  rain. 

It  is  best,  perhaps ;  one  might  have  swooned ; — 
Been  blissful  and  never  stirred: 

As  it  is — who  wears  an  open  wound 
Is  wakeful ;  or  so  I've  heard. 
73 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

All  those  children  with  wildflowers,  yesterday, 
Were  they  real?  and  the  buds  they  bore? 

Did  they  laugh  as  I  listened  ?    Did  you  say 
It  was  friendship  and  nothing  more? 

You  have  broken  the  bowl;  well,  let  it  pass; 

It  was  written ;  I  should  have  known : 
(I  will  gather  these  crumbs  of  jewelled  glass) 

There  ...  I    have    knelt  ...  on    the 
stone. 


74 


To-day 

I  BRING  YOU  all  my  olden  days, 

My  childhood's  morning  glow  ; 
I  love  you  down  the  meadow  ways 

Where  early  blossoms  blow: 
And  up  deep  lanes  of  long-gone-by, 

Shining  with  dew-drops  yet, — 
I  wander  still,  till  you  and  I 

Over  the  world  are  met. 

I  bring  you  all  my  lonely  days, 

My  heart  that  hungered  so; 

I  love  you  through  the  wistful  haze 
Of  autumns  burning  low: 
75 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

And  on  pale  seas,  beneath  wan  sky, 

By  weary  tides  beset, 
I  voyage  still,  till  you  and  I 

Over  the  world  are  met. 

I  bring  you  all  my  happy  days, — 

Armfuls  of  flowers — oh, 
I  love  you  as  the  sunlight  stays 

On  mountains  heaped  with  snow: 
And  where  the  dearest  dream-buds  lie, 

With  tears  and  dew-drops  wet, 
I  toss  to-day ;  for  you  and  I 

Over  the  world  are  met! 


76 


Images 

Once,  from  a  valley,  deep  in  shade, 

I  saw  a  cloud  go  by; 
Richly  in  sunlight   all  arrayed, — 

A  rose-leaf  in  a  sky. 
Thou  art  to  me,  dear,  like  that  cloud, 

Far-floating  down  the  West; 
Serene  and  pure  and  perfect-browed, — 

Alone  and  loveliest. 

Once,  in  a  crowded  concert  hall, 
I  heard  a  master  play; 

One  air  out-lingered  through  it  all, 
A  rainbow  in  bright  spray. 
77 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Thou  art  to  me,  dear,  like  that  air; 

In  all  the  changing  years 
Poised,  unforgetable  and  fair, 

Over  a  mist  of  tears. 

Once,  on  a  beach  which  foam  had  rimmed 

White,  where  the  tide  was  low, 
I  found  a  shell  all  overbrimmed 

With  brine  the  sea  left  so. 
Thou  art  to  me,  dear,  like  that  shell, 

Light-lying  on  the  sand,     . 
An  ocean  in  its  fluted  well; — 

That  did  not  understand.  .  .  . 


78 


Castles  in  Spain 

A  PEACOCK  Struts  on  the  balustrade, 

The  Ivy  is  old  on  the  wall ; 
Over  the  roofs,  like  an  accolade, 

The  mellowing  sunbeams  fall; 
And  it's  always  drowsy  and  afternoon, — 

Yes,  always,  afternoon. 
As  I  climb  the  hill  and  look  through  the  grille 

Of  the  gates  that  are  closing  soon. 

First  is  a  garden  of  bygone  days, 

Sweet  William  and  thyme  and  rue  ; 

Spattering  lillies,  a  fountain  plays; 

A  sun-dial  blinks  at  the  blue; 
79 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

And  it's  always  drowsy  and  afternoon, — 

Yes,  always,  afternoon, 
As  I  come  again  to  my  castle  in  Spain, 

Up  the  garden  walks,  in  June. 

Next  is  a  moat,  and  a  drawbridge  high, 

With  chains,  and  a  seneschal 
Who  clanks  it  down  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 

At  my  brave  "What  ho!     I  call!" 
And  it's  always  drowsy  and  afternoon, — 

Yes,  always,  afternoon. 
As  I  lift  my  head  to  the  haughty  tread 

Of  an  ancient  hunting  tune. 

I  pass  the  court-yard,  and  entering, 

I  stride  through  the  banquet  hall; 

I  reach  a  door  with  a  secret  spring, 

And  open  it — quick — in  the  wall ; 
80 


Castles  in  Spain 

But  it's  alwa)^s  drowsy  and  afternoon, 

Yes,   always,   afternoon. 
As  I  gain  the  stair  that  is  waiting  there. 

In  a  turret,  and  then — I  swoon. 

Someday,  perhaps,  a  dream  will  be  kind, 

And  leave  me  longer  in  there ; 
Someday,  yes,  someday,  perhaps  I'll  find 

Who  waits  on  that  turret  stair  ; 
But  it  won't  be  drowsy  and  afternoon, — 

Oh,  no,  not  afternoon; 
I  shall  kiss  your  face  in  some  starlit  place. 

While  nightingales  wake  to  the  moon,- 
Ah,   me — 

Dim  nightingales  waked  by  the  moon. 


8i 


Sailed:   S.  S. 

The  singing  tides  go  out  to  sea; 

Then  turn,  and  come  in  again; 

But  ships  are  different;  they  sail,  and  we 

Are  left  alone,  in  the  rain. 

They  stand  so  still,  the  whole  week  through, 
Like  steeds  at  a  tavern  door: 
Comes  time  to  mount — there's  work  to  do; 
But  parting  is  something  more. 

Their  white  wakes  fade  full  fast  behind, — 
The  sea  is  forgetful  soon; 
But  we,  forlorn,  turn  back  to  find 
Dead  leaves  that  the  wind  has  strewn. 

82 


Till  the  Last  Wave  Sings 

Wonderful  winds  are  blowing 

Over  the  broad  blue  sea; 
Wonderful  ships  are  going 

Clear  of  the  harbor  quay: 
Gallantly  breaks  in  thunder 

Proud  canvas  from  the  sky; 
Lee  rails  are  rolling  under, 

Bright  spindrift  flashes  by. 

(refrain) 

Sail,  oh,  sail,  with  outspread  wings; 
Go  to  my  love,  and  say 

83 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

I  will  be  true  till  the  last  wave  sings, 
And  the  stars  are  washed  away! 


Rocks  where  the  tide-rip  clashes 

With  clogging  seaweed  bloom; 
Reefs  where  the  white  spray  dashes, 

And  glutted  caves  of  gloom : 
Ships  into  distance  merging 

With  clouds,  far-off  and  low;— 
Give  rein,  they  need  no  urging; 

Loose  them  and  let  them  go! 

(refrain) 

Here,  in  the  twilight  places, 

I  used  to  walk  with  her; 

Here,  where  a  thousand  faces 

Make  one  face  lovelier: 

84 


Till  the  Last  Wave  Sings 

Out  of  the  harbor  streaming, 

The  ships  go  bravely  by; 

Desolate,  out  of  my  dreaming, 

I  watch  them  pass,  and  cry: 

(refrain) 


85 


Landward 

Over  the  side,  over  the  side, 

Ever  the  same  is  the  sea; 
Out  of  the  drift  the  white  weaves  lift, 

Driving  unendingly: 
Sunrise  w^as  red,  and  day  is  sped. 

Gold,  on  a  glooming  sea; — 
Oh,  to  be  near,  oh,  to  be  near 

Land,  and  be  loved  by  thee! 

Deep  in  thine  eyes,  deep  in  thine  eyes, 
Ever  the  same  as  the  sea. 

Shadows  bend  low,  sun-ripples  flow, 
Changing  enchantingly : 
86 


Landward 

Stars  in  the  dim  evenlight  swim, 
Soft,  on  a  violet  sea; — 

Oh,  to  be  near,  oh,  to  be  near 

Land,  and  be  loved  by  thee! 

All  of  a  w^hile,  all  of  a  w^hile — 

Ever  the  same  is  the  sea — 
Clouded  w^ith  gold,  when  will  unfold 

Hills  of  that  far  countrie? 
Pale  in  the  sky  the  moon,  held  high, 

Lanterns  a  lonely  sea; — 
Oh,  to  be  near,  oh,  to  be  near 

Land,  and  be  loved  by  thee! 


87 


The  Urban  Shepherd 

Not  so  Theocritus  in  crystal  song 
Imprisoned  shepherds  and  white  flocks  of  sheep. 
Wide  fields  were  theirs,  and  solitudes  so  long, 
With  pipes  of  rough-notched  reed  they  passed  the 

day, 
And  stretched,  when  noon  was  hot,  in  shade  for 

sleep, 
Or  sighed  for  Chloe,  when  the  clouds  turned 

grey. 

With  floating  fillets  they  entwined  their  hair, 
And  footed  it  with  lasses  in  a  ring: 
Warm  milk,  from  wooden  bowls,  they  quaffed; 
their  fare 

88 


The  Urban  Shepherd 

Was  bread  and  cheese,  or  honey  from  the  hive. 
Of  such  Theocritus  loved  well  to  sing; — 
How  should  he  sing  them  now,  were  he  alive? 

Here  in  the  city  park,  strait-laced  with  trees, 
Its  scanty  sward  made  prim  with  garden  lore, 
How  can  a  shepherd  posture  at  his  ease, 
Or  frolic  on  his  pipe  a  love-sick  strain? 
Alas,  he  cannot;  idylls  are  no  more; 
The  dead  Adonis  comes  not  back  again. 

O   sheep   that   munched   sweet   grass   on   windy 

slopes 
Of   Ida,   when   young   Paris,   lolling   there, 
Beguiled  Aenone  with  bright,  boyish  hopes 
And  golden  feathers  of  plumed  vows,  how  fall 
They  whom  tradition  wraps  not  in  charmed  air ! 
(Park  sheep  eat  peanuts,  eat  them  shells  and  all. 

89 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

I've  seen  them,  shameless  things!    What  race  ox 

breed 
Is  there,  on  sea  or  land,  will  not?    What  pride 
Remains  in  men  or  squirrels,  that  will  feed 
On  such  glib  food;  on  fodder  so  inept? 
Lions,  you  say?     Perhaps:  I  never  tried 
The  king  of  beasts;  I  feared  he  might — accept.) 

Huddled  together  by  a  silly  throng 
I  came  upon  some  sheep  not  long  ago; 
Cresting  a  hill-top,  blundering  along, 
Brown-backed    (not    white)    and    bold    beyond 

amaze. 
(One  tried  to  eat  my  camera.)     Ah,  no, 
Not  these,   not  now,  Theocritus  could  praise. 

Their  shepherd,  even  less;  no  cloak  had  he. 
Nor  legs  cross-gartered  (oh,  theatric  lore!)  ; 

90 


The  Urban  Shepherd 

He  leaped  not,  piping,  as  in  poesy, 
Nor  stalked  morosely  with  a  tragic  frown: 
Clothes  of  a  common  citizen  he  wore; 
Unnoticed  he  might  walk,  in  any  town. 

"Perhaps  he  haunts  a  Dairy  Lunch,"  I  mused; 

But  even  this  left  comfort  in  the  cold. 

Sadly  I  turned  away:  "Not  thus  they  used 

Aspiring  poets,  in  old  times,"  I  said: 

"No  wonder  men  could  sing  in  the  great  gold 

Of  early  dawn :  but  now — those  days  are  dead. 

"Color  is  killed:  the  w^orld  one  monotone. 
We  have  no  atmosphere  to  temper  sight." 
But  as  I  drooped  on  this,  discouraged,  lone. 
The  faces  of  that  crowd  swam  through  my  sighs, 
And  beauty,  blossoming,  broke  out  in  light. 
Not  mirth  I  saw,  but  hunger,  in  their  eyes. 

91 


For  the  Dedication  of  a  Toy  Theatre  ^ 

You  banished  fairies  and  lean  outlawed  elves, 
Immured  in  dusty  books  on  closet  shelves; 
You  exorcised  young  spirits  that  have  lain, 
Cooped  up  wnth  cobwebs,  in  a  cynic's  brain; 
You  goblins  and  good  fellows,  mischief  mites 
That    drank    the    cream    and    teased    the    dog, 

o'nights ; 
You  godmothers;  you  witches  on  old  brooms; 
You    prancing    princes     (coal-black    hair,    and 

plumes). 
Maidens,  magicians,  ogres,  Jacks-in-vines, 
Con  your  enchantments,  furbish  up  your  lines, 

^  By  kind  permission  of  Scribner's  Magazine. 

92 


For  the  Dedication  of  a  Toy  Theatre 

Make  read}-  for  revival — not  so  fast! — 
You  shall  be  summoned  when  the  plav  is  cast. 
And  you,  grown  old  too  early,  you  whose  eyes 
Have  lost  the  wonder  of  the  truly  wise; 
You  scoffers  armed  with  "science"  and  a  laugh, 
Who  know  the  world  and  scorn  the  better  half ; 
You,  also,  looking  back\vard  with  regret, 
Who  catch  some  glimmers  of  late  childhood  yet; 
And  you  who  never  wandered,  skimped  indeed. 
Beyond  the  borders  of  the  hard  world's  need ; 
But  most,  you  children,  holding  in  your  hearts 
The  ways  of  highest  heaven,  best  of  arts. 
Be  seated  here.    Yon  curtain  is  the  mind: 
Let  logic  slip,  and — laughter  is  behind. 
Ay,  laughter,  and  brave  deeds,  and  hopes  come 

true, — 
The  old  sweet  world  of  fancy,  made  for  you. 
But  mark  you,  disenchantment's  nigh  at  hand; 

93 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Whoever  questions  will  not  understand. 
Look  to't :  and,  as  you  love  us,  we  entreat. 
Put  off  your  cares;  a  smile  will  buy  your  seat. 
Ho !  actors !  come,  make  ready  there  within ; — 
Have  up  the  curtain;  let  the  play  begin! 


94 


The  Man  of  God 

As  boyhood  waned,  the  prophecies  began. 
He  would  hear  silence  broken  overhead 
By  voices  whispering  where  no  winds  ran: 
"Look  up! — look  up!     Behold  and  see!" — they 
said. 

There  wrapped  him  then  such  modesty  of  eyes, — 
Such  melting  loveliness  enmisted  him, 
As  veils  the  cloudless  peaks  of  Paradise, 
And  folds  the  wings  of  fainting  seraphim. 

It  passed,  and  left  him  prone  upon  the  ground, 
Often  as  not  with  wildflowers,  or  the  tune 
Of  a  sweet  brook,  whereby  he  slowly  found 
His  human  speech  once  more,  and  shed  the  swoon. 

95 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

And  ever  after,  what  the  wildflowers  spoke, — 
What  words  were  in  a  brook,  to  him  lay  bare: 
Eyes   on   the  ground,   his  heart  filled   full,   and 

broke, 
With  very  blissfulness  of  being  there. 

So  great  his  joy,  he  sang  it  on  his  way; 
But  men,  the  most  of  men,  flung  cold  disdain : 
"Here  is  no  prophet,  prophets  are  not  gay; 
He  brings  glad  tidings,  they,  eternal  pain. 

Came  preachers,  then,  with  critical  dispraise, 
Pouring  detraction  on  his  lowly  head: 
"He  is  not  orthodox;  he  does  not  raise 
His  eyes  to  God."  "I  do  not  dare";  he  said. 

The  poor,  the  sick,  the  children,  took  him  in, 
He  sang  them  songs  and  gave  them  of  his  cheer; 

96 


The  Man  of  God 

He  preached  to  birds  and  shrived  them  of  their 

sin, 
He  wept,  and  flowers  wept  with  him,  tear  for 

tear. 

At  last,  with  folded  hands  he  must  down  lie, 
To  lay  his  mortal  dust  among  the  dead. 
"The  world  is  beautiful;  it  passes  by; — 
I  loved  it:  now — I  will  look  up!" — he  said. 


97 


Baal 

(I.  Kings  18:26.) 

Crushing  weight  and  cruel  size, 

And  in  the  eyes 

No  shadowing  of  pity,  but  slow  flames 

Of  sleeping  lust, 

And  old,  bad  triumphs  sifting  out  their  names 

Through  death  and  dust. 

Thou  art  all  Earth's,  ay,  utterly  thou  art. 

Grim  counterpart 

Of  ugly  crags  and  soaring  plinths  that  go 

Into  blind  snow; 

Huge  as  the  heave  of  some  anarchic  head 

Out  of  Perdition's  bottomless  black  bed, 

98 


Baal 

All  wreathed  in  slime: 

Godlike,  rough-shapen,  high,  unhallowed. 

Thou  art  all  Earth's,  yet,  earth-born,  hast  no 

dread 
Of  braying  Time. 

Before  thee,  awful,  dark — a  grave  of  sound — 

Goes  drifting  by 

Sad    wreckage    of   lost   hopes:    young   laughter, 

drowned ; 
Trothplights,  betrayed;  creeds  that  were  never 

crowned — 
Jetsam  and  flotsam,  cringing  round  and  round, 
Each  with  its  cry. 

But  thou  art  severed;  none  is  in  thine  ears: 
Only  thou  hearest,  as  in  shells  one  hears. 
Old  deafened  thunders  of  defeated  years 
Blown  back  to  die. 

99 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Voices  by  night  and  faces  in  the  day; 

The  wind's  are  they 

Who  are  the  thralls  of  thee ;  the  wind's  to  blow 

Down  flickering  aisles  of  forests,  far  and  slow; — 

Fading  away: 

Griefs  in  the  night,  a  sea  of  sighs  by  day; 

The  winds  are  they. 

"O  Baal,  hear ! — not  yet  is  bud  made  bloom, 

Not  yet  unfold 

Those  petals  of  surpassing  sweet  perfume 

Our  clenched  hands  hold: 

Before  our  feet  a  veil  of  shadow  falls, 

A  chilling  breath  goes  by,  a  far  voice  calls; 

A  sudden  silence  echoes  in  our  halls; — 

Cold  ...  we  are  cold. 

''Give  us  the  flame! — not  love  nor  wealth,  nor 
lands, 

lOO 


Baal 

Nor  winged  fame; 

We  have  them  all,  see — in  our  broken  hands — 

Plucked  in  thy  name: 

We  that  are  strong  ask  but  a  little  thing; 

Give  us  our  hearts  again,  hearts  that  vi^ould  sing; 

Give  us  an  end  of  cold  and  hungering; — 

Give  us  the  flame!" 

Thou  dost  not,  ever:  neither  hast  thou  heard 

A  single  w^ord. 

Yet,  deep  within  thee,  quenchless  futures  burn; 

Thine  eyes  upturn 

The  wind-blown  ruins  of  the  past;  thy  gaze 

Levels  the  Pyramids,  dreaming  back  through  haze 

Of  buried  dooms; 

Beyond  remotest  memory;  always 

Over  lost  altars  hollow  with  old  praise; — 

Altars — and  tombs. 

lOI 


Sudden  Death 

It  was  a  gentle  day: 

Here  in  America,  far  away, 

Was  peace,  and  a  sweet  June  day. 

A  south  wind  touched  the  sea. 

From  over  the  sea's  broad  brim; 

The  diamonds  danced  delightfully 

On  every  ripple's  rim. 

And  only  the  haze,  far  out  to  sea, 

Till  noon  had  struck — then,  in  the  West 

A  towering  cloud  tossed  up  his  crest: — 

The  wind  died  out  for  him. 

Dark  in  the  North, 
And  deeper  dark  stood  forth; 

1 02 


Sudden  Death 

Then  cavern  growls  of  thunder  stirred, 

Till  other  thunders,  waking,  heard. 

And  surly,  roared  reply, 

A  sinful  sky, — 

A  wicked,  ragged  sky, 

A  sky  that  grew 

Greenish  of  hue, — 

A  sickly,  tortured,  squeamish  sky, 

Wherethrough 

Great  anguish  drew. 

Then  rain, 

Sweeping  the  main, 

Like  long  grey  garments,  came; — 

Then  hurricane. 

The  trees,  poor  trees. 
Their  sanctities, — 
Their  leafy,  summer  sanctities 

103 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Outraged  and  torn! 

And,  oh,  the  flowers  in  gardens  gay, 

Ravished  and  ruined  beyond  repay, — 

The  stalwart  stalk  and  the  glad  young  spray, — 

Drooping  forlorn! 

The  wild  rose,  shorn 

Of  her  petals,  her  pride. 

Wept;  but  the  daises  died. 

And  the  hollihocks. 

And  the  phlox, 

And  the  iris — all  died. 

(Little  it  cared, — 

That  hurricane. 

With  its  wind  and  its  rain. 

And  its  fiendish  frown.) 

Came  hail, 

And  like  a  flail, 

104 


Sudden  Death 

Beat  down 

What  the  wind  had  spared. 

Sunlight  again; 

Bird-song  again; 

Rest  after  rain. 

Once  more  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 

A  glistening  world,  a  world  made  new, 

After  its  pain: 

Even  for  all  its  wreckage,  made  new, 

Brighter  and  better,   and  sweeter,   too, — 

Sweeter  for  pain. 

For  oh,  the  fragrance  everywhere! 

As  though  each  flower  that  died  were  there; 

As  though  the  heart  of  each  flower,  in  air, 

Floated  on  ecstasies  far  more  rare 

Than  ever  in  life  its  heart  could  bear; — 

The  fragrance,  the  fragrance  everywhere! 

105 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

And  they, 

Half  a  world  away, 

On  their  poor  torn  sod, 

One  wonders  if  they  .  .  . 

Believe  it,  believe  it! — their  souls,  for  aye, 

Are  sweet  in  the  face  of  God ! 


1 06 


To  a  White-Throated  Sparrow 

Not  to  the  near  thou  singest,  bird 

Of  the  cold  northern  skies; 
Far-called  thou  art,  a  voice  unheard 
Speaks,  and  thy  wakeful  heart  is  stirred, 

And  in  like  key  replies. 

Beyond  the  breath  of  balsam  pine, 
And  lakes  where  startled  loon 
Echo  from  cliffs  that  cool  the  shine 
Of  daybreak,  or  in  coves  combine 

With  wolves  to  haunt  the  moon: 

Beyond  the  dip  of  paddles;  where 
No  lighted  tent  can  be ; 
107 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Beyond  the  smoke  of  birch,  to  bear 
Clean  fragrance  through  still  twilight  air, — 
There  is  that  calls  to  thee. 

Thou  answerest,  and  art  again 

Made  eager  to  reply; 
Like  children  down  a  country  lane 
Calling  at  parting,  each  one  fain 

To  blow  the  last  good-bye. 

Rapt  singer,  in  thy  sharpened  ken 

There  trembles  a  dim  word; 
Thou  hearest  what  is  hid  from  men, 
Thou  art  divine,  a  dreamer,  then — 

Only  a  brown-backed  bird. 


io8 


A  Hill  Touched  Heaven 

A  HILL  touched  heaven,  and  heaven  touched  the 

hill. 
One  moment;  then  were  twain  once  more. 

********** 

Wind  in  the  grass,  you  are  unwitting  still ; 
Bare  boughs,  you  roar 

With  mad  March  music,  heedless  as  before, 
And   flying  shadows,   you  whom   fluffed  clouds 

spill 
Right  into  sunshine — solemn  blinks  of  eyes — 
It  was  not  told  to  you: 

Nor  unto  you,  great  overarching  gulf  of  blue. 

109 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Are  you  more  wise, 

You  little  last  year's  leaf,  the  hillside  holds  ? — 

You  with  your  sunset  reds  and  deep,  dull  golds, 

Your  wrinkles  and  your  crinkles,  and  the  shy, 

Sweet  look  you  have,  of  keeping, 

Locked  in  your  heart  and  sleeping, 

A  dream  you  knew 

And  hid  into  silence?     I 

Am  not  so  sure  of  you. 

Can  it  be  you  heard. 
You  bird 

On  the  far-away  branch,  with  your  song  that  came 
Out  of  full  throat,  like  flame? 
Or  was  it  just  reproach  of  flowers 
In  this  cold  North  of  ours : 
Calling    them,    warm    southern    wooer,    calling 
them, 

no 


A  Hill  Touched  Heaven 

Who  would  not  wave  at  you  a  single  stem? 
I  do  not  think  you  heard, 
You  bird. 

But  I  ...  I  heard. 

God  stirred. 


Ill 


The  Passing  of  Sixteen 

Unclasp  the  girdle  all  entwined 

Of  roses  rare; 
Put  off  the  wreath  wherewith  you  wind 

Your  loose  long  hair : 

Let  one  pale  candle  burn,  then  blow 

All  light  away; 
Open  the  casement,  softly,  so  .  .  . 

March  is  like  May. 

Low  through  the  tree  stems,  petal-wide, 

The  red  moon  gleams: 

A  faint  wind  stirs,  and  having  sighed, 

Sinks  into  dreams. 

********** 

112 


The  Passing  of  Sixteen 

Once  more  the  city  turns,  to-night, 

Weary  of  walls; 
Young  laughter  fills  it,  and  the  flight 

Of  gay  footfalls. 

Long  from  my  window,  languidly, 

I  look  and  lean : 
A  street-car  dies  ...  a  clock  strikes  .  .  .  She 

Is  seventeen! 


113 


Apple  Blossoms 

White  music  of  the  sun, 

It  is  done, 

The  dreamed  is  done  ; 

Out  of  the  vast 

Invisible,  beauty  is  born,  at  last; 

Out  of  the  blue, 

Blessing  has  come.  Heaven  is  won ; — 

White  music  of  the  sun. 

It  is  true,  it  is  true ! 


Petals  of  dawn, 

Impregnate  pink  with  such  a  flush  of  rose 

114 


Apple  Blossoms 

As  overflows 

Inviolate  peaks,  and  burns,  and  glows, 

Red  rose,  hot  rose,  warm  rose,  pale  rose, 

And  is  withdrawn, 

And  dawn 

Melts  into  day-white:  so — they  unclose. 

Magical  trees, 

Holding  heavenly  harmonies, — 

For  just  a  breath,  tip-strewn  with  fire 

Of  attained  desire; 

For  just  one  point  of  aim, 

Flung  w^hite  with  flame 

Of  little  cherub  wings,  that  are 

Imprisoned  music  broken  on  a  star: 

(Celestial  choir. 

In  outmost  antiphon. 

Lighted  upon 

115 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

These 

Most  humble  trees.) 

Flowering  trees, 

Fringes  of  blissful,  invisible  seas; 
Whispering  home 
Of  each  wave  crest  made  manifest 
Here,  in  white  foam. 
That  was  first,  an  unseen. 
Then  a  dream. 
Then  Earth  stepped  between 
And  it  broke — each  one  broke — 
And  awoke 

Here,  on  these  apple-boughs,  sistered  with  green: 
( Mystic  unseen ; 

That  were  seas  once,  and  trees  once, 
And  now  again  are 
Each  a  bud — or  a  star.) 

ii6 


Apple  Blossoms 

Sweet-smelling  trees 

That  the  bees 

Are  implored-of  and  plunder,  trees 

Delicious  to  climb 

In  the  happy  springtime, 

For  children ;  trees 

Full  of  ecstasies, 

Rhapsodies,  May  music,  blown 

Out  of  meadows 

Where  shadows 

Lie  soft  and  alone. 

And  birds  gaily  sing 

Out  of  thickets  and  hedgerows : — 

For  spring  is  most  spring 

In  the  orchards,  where  edged  grows 

With  pink  and  with  dawn  rose, 

In  foam  and  in  song  throes. 

This  beautiful  thing, 

117 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

This  wonderful  thing, — 

The  apple,  the  apple,  that  blooms  in  the  spring! 


Amorous  month  of  May, 

What  a  day, — 

What  a  golden  day ! 

How  the  warm  breeze 

Ruffles  the  foam  on  the  apple  trees; — 

How  the  birds  sing 

As  they  swing 

To  and  fro  on  a  spray; 

How  each  bud's  way  is  sweet  love's  way; — 

Amorous  month  of  May, 

To-day — to-day — 

It  is  spring,  it  is  spring,  it  is  spring! 


ii8 


Summer  Evening 

Soft  as  a  sigh,  faint  as  a  cry 

Blown  from  a  hill-top  in  childhood ; 
Flushes  the  sky,  deepen  and  die 

Marshland  and  meadow  and  wildwood. 

Dropped  where  the  bay  widens  away, 

Wistful,  a  light-house  is  lurking; 

Out  with  the  day,  ghostly  and  grey, 

Seaward  a  schooner  is  working. 

Frogs  in  the  fen,  sheep  in  the  pen; 

Crickets  and  night-birds  creaking; 
Voices  of  men,  silence,   and  then — 

Laughter   and  muffled  speaking. 
119 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Waves  on  the  shore,  music,  an  oar, — 
Stars  and  the  incense  of  clover; 

Twilight  before;  twilight  no  more; — 
Long  was  the  day,  but  it's  over. 


1 20 


To  Sibylla,  on  a  Raft 

We  might  be  leagues  from  land,  we  two, 
For  all  the  world  counts,  now  and  here ; 
I  might  be  Captain  Kidd,  and  you — 
The  girl  who  wrecked  a  buccaneer. 

You  were  aboard  a  galleon,  bound 
For  traffic  in  the  southern  seas; 
We  caught  you  when  you  ran  aground, 
Just  as  you  felt  the  off-shore  breeze. 

Our  swivel-gun  coughed  honest  lead 
Athwart  your  lordly  bows  of  gold ; 
I  cracked  your  coxcomb  captain's  head. 
And  scooped  ripe  bullion  from  the  hold. 

121 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Your  crew,  then,  down  the  jolly  plank 
We  sent,  with  horrid  shouts  of  glee. 
They  blew  brave  bubbles  as  they  sank: — 
I  took  you  off  and  put  to  sea. 

You  were  a  lady  in  distress, 
And   I,   a  pirate,   gently  born: 
I  served  you  in   all  humbleness, 
And  meekly  stood  your  frozen  scorn. 

But  luck,  with  you  aboard,  went  wrong, 
A  raging  tempest  racked  our  souls: 
It  scourged  us  like  a  white-hot  thong; 
We  ran  before  it  with  bare  poles. 

And  then — such  leeway  we  had  made — 
After  the  wind  had  ceased  to  whine. 
We  could  not  ply  our  gentle  trade. 
And  cursed  a  blank  horizon  line. 

122 


To  Sibylla,  on  a  Raft 

Then  baffling  winds  and  calms  took  turns 
In  thwarting  us  from  beating  back: 
My  first  mate  died  of  powder  burns, 
Our  mainmast  opened  up  a  crack. 

The  crew  blamed  you;  I  took  your  side; 
Dark  looks  flared  up  in  mutiny: 
They  plumped  us  promptly — for  a  ride — 
Upon  this  raft,  in  empty  sea. 

Revenge ! — revenge ! — we  wreaked  it  soon ; 
The  tipsy  rout  were  no  more  seen : 
An  earthquake  tossed  them  to  the  moon; — 
Their  revels  retched  the  magazine. 

Life  isn't  story-book,  it's  true; 
But  just  this  moment,  now  and  here, 
I  might  be  Captain  Kidd,  and  you — 
The  girl  who  wrecked  a  buccaneer. 

123 


To  Lucia,  in  the  Hospital 

It  seemed  a  very  cruel  thing 
For  you,  so  new  to  suffering: 
One  blamed  the  thought  of  sliding  steel ; 
One  would  not,  dared  not  think  it  real, 
And  all  the  perfect  white  profaned 
By  one  red  slash  the  need  ordained  .  .  . 
For  you,  so  new  to  suffering, 
It  seemed  a  very  cruel  thing. 

But  now  there  is  a  something  more; 
Your  smile  is  gentler  than  before, 
And  like  a  grey  of  clearing  skies, 
All  dashed  with  sunlight  are  your  eyes: 

124 


To  Lucia,  in  the  Hospital 

Your  arm  upon  the  coverlet  glows 
A  more  transparent  depth  of  rose. 
Your  smile  is  gentler  than  before, 
But  now  there  is  a  something  more  .  .  . 

I  think  an  angel  touched  you,  Sweet, 
When  in  dark  pain  you  dipped  your  feet ; 
(Beauty  and  Pain  in  Paradise 
Take  keepsakes  of  each  other's  eyes) 
And  now,  upon  the  warm  earth  shore. 
Your  smile  is  gentler  than  before. 
When  in  dark  pain  you  dipped  your  feet, 
I  think  an  angel  touched  you,  Sweet. 


125 


The  Little  Boy  to  the  Locomotive 

Big  iron  horse  with  lifted  head, 
Panting  beneath  the  station  shed, 
You  are  my  dearest  dream  come  true; — 
I   love   my   Dad;    I   worship   you! 

Your  noble  heart  is  filled  with  fire. 
For  all  your  toil,  you  never  tire. 
And  though  you're  saddled-up  in  steel. 
Somewhere,  inside,  I  know  you  feel. 

All  night  in  dreams  when  you  pass  by, 
You  breathe  out  stars  that  fill  the  sky. 
And  now,  when  all  my  dreams  are  true, 
I  hardly  dare  come  close  to  you. 

126 


The  Locomotive  to  the  Little  Boy 

Boy,  whose  little,  confiding  hand 
Your  father  holds,  why  do  you  stand 
Staring  in  wonderment  at  me, — 
Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be? 

Your  unsophisticated  eyes 
Are  full  of  beautiful  surprise; 
And  oh,  how  wonderful  you  are, 
You  little,  golden  morning-star! 

Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be, 
A  mortal  man  imagined  me; 
But  you — you  drop  of  morning  dew — 
God  and  his  heaven  are  globed  in  you. 

127 


Silent  Prayer 

One  rose  Is  not  enough  for  love 

To  plead  with,  at  thy  door ; 
Though  all  its  petals  spoke  to  thee 

The  prayer  I  plucked  it  for ; — 
Though  every  sweetest  precinct  of 

Its  beauty  should  implore: 
Yet  were  all  roses  mine  to  be, 

They  could  not  tell  thee  more. 


128 


Over  a  Bunch  of  Arbutus 

Celebrant  Earth,  in  amice  of  white  snow, 
Do  not  chant,  yet ;  intone  no  stave  of  prayer 
To  take  full  choir  in  tree-tops ;  have  a  care 
Of  echoing  arches,  lest  too  soon  there  go 
Into  high-vaulted  heaven  the  glory:  no, 
Speak  not  at  all,  while  on  the  April  air 
This  maiden  incense  lays  its  beauty  bare, 
Out  of  wet  leaves  November  winds  brought  low. 

Laughter,  to  loss,  is  treason  to  the  dead, 
And  Dante's  face  is  guidance  for  the  true; 
But  this  is  spring,  and  weeping  wears  away 
The  cold  white  marble  of  the  uncomforted : 
Gentle  arbutus,  should  she  dream  to-day, 
Tell  her  I  smiled,  this  once — for  joy  of  you. 

129 


Lincoln :   Fifty  Years 

Great  love  of  God,  that  moving  on  the  deep, 
Imaginest  a  mighty  daw^n  of  gold 
From  one  leal  star  aloft  the  midnight  cold, 
In  lonely  armament  for  all  who  sleep; 
What  dreams  prophetic  kindled  in  thy  keep 
When  Lincoln,  claimed,  beyond  his  prairie  w^old, 
Caught  up  his  country's  sorrow^s  in  brave  hold. 
And  foot  by  foot,  conquered  the  desperate  steep  ? 

Once  more,  to-day,  the  sad,  deciduous  trees 
Are  full  of  singing  music ;  once  more,  v^ide, 
Blow  open  all  the  windy  doors  of  spring : 
The  South,  the  precious  South  returns ;  the  breeze 
Strews  on  the  graves  a  happier  mentioning  .  .  . 
Lincoln  lives  on;  it  was  the  hate  that  died! 

130 


Thomas  Chatterton 

As  one  first  chord  of  music,  dwelt  upon, 
Voices  another,  even  ere  it  dies, — 
Down-dropping  beauty  in  the  drowsy  eyes 
Of  Melody,  new-wakened,  and  yet  wan; 
So  thou,  clear  spirit,  earnest  and  art  gone, 
And  wouldst  have  been — what  boots  it  to  sur- 
mise? 
Still  echoes,  round  steep  cliffs  of  Paradise, 
The  unheard  singing  of  a  dying  swan. 

Low-leaning  on  the  brink  I  saw  him,  late, 
Beside  a  pool  that  sheltered  him  and  Heaven ; 
Not  sorrowful  he  seemed,  a  pretty  child 

131 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Playing  at  finger-dips  with  death  and  Fate, 
Till  each  orbed  star  became  a  shattered  seven. 
He  viewed  the  wreck;  then  looked  at  me,  and 
smiled. 


132 


Windows  of  Gold 

Windows  of  gold,  windows  of  gold, 

Over  dark  roofs  of  rain; 

Wonderful  shapes  of  the  sunset  you  hold, 

Wind-shaken  windows,  windows  of  gold. 

Over  dark  roofs  of  rain. 

Windows  of  gold,  windows  of  gold. 
More  than  sunlight  you  see; 
So  might  a  conquering  host  behold 
Ranges  on  ranges  of  peaks  unrolled, — 
Exulting  mightily. 


133 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Windows  of  gold,  windows  of  gold, 

Is  it  a  dream  of  5^ore? 
Something  jou  tell  of  a  story  told 
Long  ago — long  ago — dear  and  old, 

IVI}'  heart  is  aching  for. 

Windows  of  gold,  windows  of  gold. 

Over  dark  roofs  of  rain; 
Now  I  know — now  I  know — what  you  hold, 
Wind-shaken  windows,  windows  of  gold; — 

Triumph,  and  no  more  pain! 


134 


Due  North 

Enough:  you  have  the  dream,  the  flame; 

Free  it  henceforth: 
The  South  has  given  you  a  name ; — 

Now  for  the  North. 

Unsheathe  your  ship  from  where  she  lies, 

In  narrow  ease; 
Fling  out  her  sails  to  the  tall  skies, 

Flout  the  sharp  seas. 

Beyond  bleak  headlands  wistful  burn 
Warm  lights  of  home ; 

In  shutting  darkness  frays  astern. 
Far-spun,   the  foam. 
135 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Come  wide  sea-dawns,  that  empty  are 

Of  wet  sea  sand; 
Come  eves,  that  lay  beneath  a  star 

No  lull  of  land. 

And  whether  on  faint  iris  wings 

Of  fancy  borne, 
Or  blown  and  breathed,  the  south  wind  brings 

So  much  to  mourn! 

The  deep  wood-shadows,  they  that  drew 

So  softly  near ; 
The  violets  all  veined  with  blue, — 

Be  strong,  and  steer! 

*■ 
There  is  a  silence  to  be  found. 

And  rested  in; 

A  stillness  out  of  thought,  where  sound 

Can  never  win. 

136 


Due  North 

There  is  a  peace,  beyond  the  stir 

Of  wind  or  wave; 
A  sleeping,  where  high  stars  confer 

Over  the  brave. 

The  south  winds  come,  the  south  winds  go, 

Caressing,  dear; 
Northward  is  silence,  and  white  snow, — 

Be  strong,  and  steer! 

For  in  that  silence,  waiting,  lies, 

Untroubled,   true; — 
Oh,  eager,  clear — like  love  in  eyes —  ' 

The  soul  of  you. 


137 


That  Which  Remains 

October  sunlight   on   a  lonely   stair; 
Wistful,  with  dreaming  finger-tips  that  fade 
Along  the  slender,   high-born   balustrade: 
Shadows  where  portraits  hung — no  longer  there. 

We  saw  it  so;  and  now  In  melting  stars 

Dissolves  away, 
Like  golden  tides  behind  pale,  western  bars, 

Its  bloomed  heyday. 

Gone,  like  too  early  petals  that  the  spring 

Weeps,  not  to  save; 
Gone,  like  the  foamed  white  lips  of  flowers  that 
cling 

To  a  blue  wave. 
138 


That  Which  Remains 

Ah,  lightly  gone — did  no  voice  break  with  woe? 

Were  there  no  tears 
To  work  against  the  blind,  entombing  snow 

Covering  the  years? 

Did  no  new-wedded  lover  sue  for  thee, 

When  apple-bloom 
Severed  with  sea-wind  and  laid  bare  the  sea, 

Dark  with  old  doom? 

Where  are  they  gone  who  weathered-out  the  rain 
That  dimmed  these  trees; — 

Who  heard  the  early  robins  and  were  fain 
Of  late-toned  bees? 

Where   are  they  gone  who  watched  beside  this 
gate, 

On  many  a  night, 
139 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Star  after  star  pace  down  deliberate 
The   dream-dark  height? 

Ah,  lightly  gone !— too  lightly,  too  profaned 

With  travesties! — 
The  haughty  gate-posts  regally  that  reigned, 

Are  on  their  knees. 

The  winding  walks,  that  were  a  Rome  of  law, 

Are  overrun ; 
Into  their  midst — who  held  a  world  at  awe — 

Ravens  the  Hun: 

All  rank  with  weeds  and  grassy  ruin,  now. 

They  drink  decay. 
The  trees,  crest-fallen,  creak  in  every  bough. 

So  old  are  they. 

So  old:  by  what  lost  magic  of  our  prime 
Is  blown  the  breath 
140 


That  Which  Remains 

That  tears  the  tinsel  from  the  cloak  of  Time, 
And  stands  forth  Death? 

And  thou,  old  empty  house,  dost  thou  remain 

In  this  deep  trance 
Sleeping,  not  dead,  until  warm  youth  again 

Level  its  lance? 

Until  fresh  songs  out  of  the  copsewood  leaves 

Burst,  as  of  old: 
Thinkest  thou  thus  the  charm  of  vanished  eves 

Yet  to  behold? 

No  hand  is  here  to  conjure  with  sweet  tones 

The  vanished  times ; 
No  singer  meet  to  wake  thy  voiceless  stones 

With  winged  rhymes. 

Thou  sittest  in  thy  quietude  so  still, — 
So  rapt  of  heart; 
141 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

Thou  art  but  waiting — be  it  good  or  ill; 
Surely  thou  art! 

Thou  art  but  waiting,  seeing,  not  with  eyes, 

Some  blissful  thing; 
Meekly,  like  Mary  hearing  in  surmise 

The  angels  sing. 

Around  these  wrinkled  trunks  the  shriveled  years 

Fade  out — and  will; 
But  thou  art  waiting — is  it  hopes,  or  fears? — 

Thou  art  so  still! 

So  still,  that  leaves  are  listened  to,  and  springs 

Make  flutes  of  stones; 
So  still,  the  very  silence  breathes  and  sings 

Forgotten  tones. 

The  leaves  lament.    The  silence  answers,  so : 
"Love  does  not  die; 
142 


That  Which  Remains 

And  love  is  beauty,  breathing:  no,  ah,  no, 
Love  does  not  die!" 

We  know  it,  ay,  we  know  it;  though  our  sight 

Be  not  yet  plain: 
There  is  no  loss  that  ever  questioned — quite — 

The  deeps  of  gain. 

There  is  no  loss  that  ever  w^ent  so  far, — 

Poor,  hurt  and  blind. 
But  stealing  out  of  heaven  like  a  star, 

Trailed  love  behind. 

And  love  is  beauty,  breathing  .  .  .  through  the 
sw^eet 

Old  sights  and  smells. 
Like  voices  of  lost  Sabbaths  at  thy  feet. 
Break  out  the  bells. 
143 


The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems 

October  sunlight  on  a  lonely  stair. 
Groping  with  grieving  finger-tips  that  fade 
Down  the  familiar,  well-worn  balustrade : 
Shadows  where  portraits  hung — no  longer  there. 


144 


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